


an ocean not to break

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Service Top, Topson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: Crozier, suffering from alcohol withdrawal, can't sleep. Jopson offers his help.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	an ocean not to break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebacchus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/gifts).



* * *

It had happened once or twice before, without fanfare. Of a morning, perhaps, when Captain Francis Crozier awoke with his passions stirred, glowering at the bulge between his legs as though to subdue it with the force of his stare; or of an evening, when as he undressed him for bed, Thomas Jopson's progress was halted by a sudden tenting in his master's smallclothes.

Habitually, Crozier would grunt, “Pay it no mind, Thomas,” sounding irritated with himself. Habitually, Jopson, attentive and conscientious as ever, would give a deferent little hum and continue his ministrations, his fingers skirting the area in question. 

Sometimes, however—sometimes they broke this habit.

Sometimes Jopson slid to his knees and took his master's smallclothes with him. The first time, Crozier swore in surprise, and then his protest was cut off in a sucking gasp as Jopson took his cock between his lips. The whole business was over quickly—quickly enough that Crozier nearly shouted when, suddenly, as though he were a much younger man, his pleasure overcame him and he spilled his seed down Jopson's throat. 

As Crozier stood, eyes closed, panting in his night-dress (it was evening, late, the ship was quiet), Jopson got to his feet, wiping his mouth with his own handkerchief.

“That,” Crozier began, his voice hoarse. 

Jopson cut him off, delicately. “We needn't speak of it, sir.”

And they didn’t; but it did happen again, and again.

Never once did they exchange a word. Never once did Crozier ask Jopson for anything, nor the other way round. Jopson, to his bones a perfect steward, anticipated his captain’s needs without need of commands. Crozier, a temperate master, was not inclined to give them. He spent himself into Jopson’s mouth or patient fist and not a word was said about it.

That, though, was then; and things are different now.

Now Sir John is dead, and Crozier is the leader of the expedition; and in the name of his new role he has determined to give up the drink. Francis Crozier is not one to do things by halves. Against the advice of Dr Stanley, Mr Goodsir, Lieutenant Little, and Jopson himself, he has not weaned himself slowly, but rather woke up one morning, declared he would not touch another drop of whisky, and stood watch as Jopson poured the rest of his stores overboard. That was three days ago, and for three days he has been confined to his bed, sweating, shivering, and swearing as the poison leaves his veins.

Three days and three nights: for he cannot sleep, or not the whole night through, snatching only hours or minutes at a time. And Jopson attends him no matter the hour, bringing him broth and bread, placing spoonfuls of soup and chunks of dry ship’s biscuit between his captain’s chapped and peeling lips, ready with a glass of water in case he starts to choke. He can stomach little; and there too is Jopson with a chamber-pot, supporting the older man as he retches and heaves up bile and water. He wipes sick from his lips and sweat from his brow, never flinching, never letting his face show a hint of disgust or pity.

(His captain could never disgust him, and even now, he is far above pity, at least in Jopson’s eyes.)

And Crozier notices. “You’re a good man, Thomas,” he says through chattering teeth, as Jopson tucks a blanket around his shoulders. “You’d make a fine nurse back in England, if men were permitted to do such things.”

Jopson laughs, taking the dry words for the compliment as which they were intended. “I have a strong stomach and a gentle touch, or so my mother told me.” _When she knew that it was me who tended to her._ “And it brings me pleasure to care for you. You know this,” he adds gently.

“Even now?” Crozier sweeps a hand downwards, indicating his reddened face and sweat-stained clothing, the blankets tangled by his restless limbs.

Jopson smiles. “Even now, sir.”

“Good man,” Crozier mutters again. He closes his eyes; Jopson hopes he will, at last, fall asleep. As the captain’s breathing begins to slow—interrupted now and then by a sharp intake of breath, a soft grunt of pain, as his body works the poison out—Jopson tidies the cabin, straightening the bedcovers, picking up the captain’s jacket and waistcoat from where he flung them on the floor, washing out the bowl and spoon and water-glass in the wardroom. He meets Little there, briefly, and gives him a report:

“Better than yesterday. Not so dour. He’s sleeping now, or trying to.”

“Good,” says Little with a nod, and Jopson sees the relief in the man’s sombre dark eyes. “The men are getting antsy, you know—they worry for him. Most of them do, anyhow,” he corrects himself, and by the twist of his mouth Jopson knows he thinks of Hickey.

“He’ll be back on his feet within days, God willing. I’ll make sure of it.”

Little claps him on the shoulder. “Take good care of him.”

“I couldn’t do otherwise.”

* * *

But when Jopson returns to his cabin, Crozier is awake and sitting up in bed. His hands are fisted in the bedclothes in front of him, the knuckles going white. When he comes closer, Jopson can see that they are still trembling, ever so slightly. He goes to his side at once.

“Sir. You couldn’t sleep?” He picks up the cloth, dampens it, dabs at Crozier’s brow, but his captain pushes his hand away with weary irritation.

“No. I’m so damn tired—my whole body hurts, hurts all over, like someone’s picked me up and hurled me out onto the ice and then beaten me half to death. I just want to sleep, Thomas, and I can’t.”

Jopson takes a seat, carefully, on the edge of the bed, and looks into his captain’s eyes. There is such weariness there, and still a burning frustration. Jopson knows this look: it’s the same look he gets when he has done something rash and regrets it later, when he has spoken too sharply to one of the men or exploded into an argument with Captain Fitzjames. It is the look he gets when he is disappointed with himself. _More than disappointed—furious._

“It’s all right, sir,” Jopson says softly, resisting the urge to take the captain’s hand and stroke it, as he did when tending to his mother. “It’ll be over soon. You’ve come so far already—remember, you couldn’t even sit up, night before last?”

Crozier shifts, muttering something under his breath. “I feel pathetic,” he says. “Foolish. I’ve brought this all on myself—I’ve been selfish. The men need me.”

“And you’ll be of much more use to them once you’ve gotten this out of your system,” Jopson reminds him. This time, he does place his hand atop Crozier’s, more to stop him from struggling out of bed and going to join his men than to comfort him. However gentle, it is a warning, and Crozier heeds it, falling back against his pillows and heaving a sigh of resignation.

“Fine,” he says, and then again, with less bite, “Fine. Thank you, Thomas, for being my voice of reason. As ever.”

“What I’m here for, sir.” They share a small smile. Jopson looks around: it is dark; real dark, pitch dark, the dark of a short and early Arctic night. If he can settle now, Crozier may well sleep through til morning and be on his feet by noon. “Is there anything that might help? I could talk to Goodsir or Stanley; perhaps they have a powder, or some of the coca wine.”

The suggestion is a courtesy and no more. They tried the powders on the first night, to no effect, and even Crozier agreed that coca wine would be too risky. Nothing else seemed like to work, and so Crozier has suffered three fitful nights. His pouchy eyes are even more deeply shadowed now, and likely will be for several more days, as he slowly recovers.

Crozier shakes his head. “No medicines. They shan’t work, and even if they would I couldn’t stomach them. No, Jopson, I’m afraid it’s another long night ahead.”

“Is there anything, sir,” Jopson says quietly, “that I could do?”

He looks steadily at his captain. It takes a moment, but then understanding dawns on Crozier’s face.

“Oh, Thomas. You needn’t,” says Crozier, but his voice lacks conviction.

“Here,” Jopson murmurs, his deft fingers already finding the familiar fastenings of Crozier’s trousers. He reaches between the folds of his smallclothes and takes his captain’s cock in hand. “Let me help.”

Crozier gives a low moan at this, his lips parting without volition. “No good,” he says hoarsely. “No good, Thomas. I can’t.” He waves a begrudging hand at his genitals.

And soon Jopson sees that his words are true. Even when he grips his cock and begins to stroke with a firm hand, the flesh stays limp and will not stiffen. Jopson applies his mouth, the way he knows his master likes it, but to no avail.

Crozier, watching, makes a soft frustrated sound. “I won’t sleep,” he says, half to himself.

“Yes, you will,” Jopson promises. He leans down, nearly whispering, his words ghosting over Crozier’s heat-flushed skin. “I’m your servant, sir. Let me serve you.”

And gently, carefully, he eases Crozier’s trousers down past his hips, and unbuttons his own trousers too. From somewhere in his jacket he produces a tin of petroleum jelly. By the flash in Crozier’s eyes Jopson sees he understands.

“May I, sir?”

“Yes, Thomas.” Crozier’s breathing grows laboured. “Yes. Please.”

Jopson props a pillow under his captain’s hips, ever mindful of his aching body. When he begins to open him with careful fingers, Crozier moans, but does not cry out or shy away. He has been a sailor most of his life; Jopson has never asked, but would not be surprised were this ritual familiar to him.

“How is that, sir?” Jopson asks him softly.

“Good. Good, Thomas; you’re good to me.”

“More?”

“Yes.”

So Jopson shifts, and takes himself in hand. He has grown hard like this, watching his captain, and now he slicks himself generously, feeling Crozier’s eyes on him all the while. He, too, has done this before—he half expects Crozier to comment, but he keeps a gentlemanly silence. Perhaps he has guessed that circumstances, once, led Jopson to the East End docks, where he received an education such as he had never expected; or perhaps he only assumes that, like most Navy men, Jopson is no stranger to loneliness at sea.

“Ready?” Jopson asks him, once his cock is well hard, and slick enough to cause neither any pain.

“Yes,” Crozier answers. He closes his eyes as Jopson positions himself, and they flutter open again as he slides inside him, accompanied by a low, harsh exhalation. He curses softly, under his breath, and Jopson asks, “All right?”

“Yes. More than.” He looks up at Jopson, his expression somewhere between a wince and a grin. “Only been a while.” He swallows. “Keep going.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fully seated inside him now, Jopson begins slowly to rock his hips, thrusting gently against him. It has been some time for him, too, and as the heat and pressure engulf him he realises how much he has missed this—and, too, how glad he is that he should now be fucking, not some anonymous john on the docks, but instead Crozier: his master, his captain, his friend.

It is pleasure enough—more than—for him, for Jopson; but he notices, when he opens his eyes, that Crozier’s cock stays soft. Crozier sees it too: indeed his gaze is fixed there, and the rising of his hips to meet Jopson’s thrusts is somehow half-hearted, automatic.

“Nothing, sir?” Jopson asks with concern.

Crozier grunts. “Not nothing, I assure you. And yet—” He sighs irritably.

“Let me,” says Jopson.

He waits for Crozier’s nod, the older man’s eyes carrying no small hint of relief. “Go on.”

He takes Crozier in hand again, and begins to stroke him slowly at first, as though he is still under the covers of his own berth, trying to arouse as little noise and movement as he can.

“Harder,” Crozier requests, and Jopson obeys, still thrusting into him.

The combined sensations produce a stirring. Crozier is coming to life now, his cock stiffening in Jopson’s fist. “There you are, sir,” Jopson whispers, tightening his grip and watching as clear fluid begins to bead on the head of Crozier’s cock. His captain moans aloud, the sound surprisingly soft to come from such a presence of a man.

“Yes, Thomas. Oh, yes—that’s good. You are so—” His head arches back; his next words are swallowed in a moan as Thomas rubs his thumb over the slit of his cock. “Good man,” Crozier gasps. “Such a good man, Thomas, so good to me.”

“I want to be good to you, sir,” Jopson tells him, bending low to murmur near his ear. “It pleases me to serve you, and to serve you well. I’ll give you whatever you want—whatever you need. You have only to say the word. You know that, don’t you, sir? I am yours to command.”

The words—all true, and true for as long as Jopson has been in Crozier’s service; never voiced aloud before now, but, he hopes, always expressed by other means—produce the desired effect. Crozier’s breathing hitches, and his brow furrows deeply, his lips parting in a look of guileless desire that touches Jopson’s heart. “Mine,” Crozier pants, his hands fisting in the dirty sheets. “Mine, Thomas, you are, aren’t you; my good man, my own Thomas.”

“Yours, sir,” Jopson promises, stroking him harder, pressing as deeply inside him as he can, and feeling his pleasure building to a crest. “Shall I come for you, sir? Would it please you?”

_“Yes,”_ says Crozier; and he is close, too, Jopson can feel it; and as Jopson feels the wave break over him and he reaches his pleasure with a short, soft cry, so too does his captain meet the edge, and spill thick and warm over Jopson’s hand.

For a moment they can only breathe, Crozier harsh and laboured, Jopson shallow and fast. Feeling spent, and somewhat dizzy, Jopson extricates himself carefully; and then, finding his knees suddenly weak, lists forward, and finds himself prone next to his captain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he murmurs, at once making to move—there is a mess between them, sticky and cooling, and he has near-collapsed atop his captain: unconscionable even in the circumstances. But Crozier lays a hand on his arm, and shifts in the narrow berth so that Jopson might lie beside him. He fumbles on the shelf for the dampened cloth that Jopson had used to wipe his brow, and employs it now to clean their skin where it has been sullied by their pleasure.

“Tarry a moment and catch your breath, Thomas,” he says, and there is the ironic lilt to his Irish burr that Jopson loves so well. “Have you somewhere else to be?”

Jopson laughs, relaxing, allowing his body to touch his captain’s where they lie side-by-side. “No, sir,” he admits. “Nowhere to be but where you bid me.”

A light touch to Jopson’s hair; the absent scratch of blunt fingernails on his scalp. “Good man. My own Thomas.”

Jopson chances a glance beside him: the captain’s movements have grown lazy, his voice languid; his eyes have drifted shut. The sight of his face, settling into rest, fills Jopson with a warm sweet feeling. _I have done my duty._

“Will you sleep now, sir?” Jopson asks him.

“Oh, yes,” says Crozier drowsily. “Yes, and very well, I should think. Thank you, Thomas.”

“It pleases me to serve you,” Jopson tells him, meaning every word. “I ask for nothing more.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Terrible Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bEGHRdTZ6o) by the National. For my girlfriend [bluebacchus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus), on the occasion of her birthday. I love you very much!


End file.
